


Sherlollipops - His First Affirmation

by MizJoely



Series: 221 Sherlollipops [161]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, mentions of drug use, no one gets slapped, this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6390727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>anonymous asked: sherlolly number 10 plz<3 [10. things you said that made me feel like shit]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlollipops - His First Affirmation

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap did this get angsty. I mean, it’s an angsty prompt, but man, I didn’t expect this when I started writing it. Post-HLV/TAB. Mentions of drug use. Thanks to @lilsherlockian1975 for looking it over and reassuring me it flowed well (and made her gasp aloud…you’ll probably know when!)
> 
> Definition of affirmation: a: the act of affirming **b: something affirmed: a positive assertion**

It was actually pretty amazing when she thought about it, how very few things Sherlock had said to her actually made her feel like shit. The time he’d deduced her at the Christmas party at 221B. The time he’d uttered the single, devastating word “Gay” when deducing Jim-from-IT. The time he’d snarked about her engagement having come to an end.

She’d not let any of it get her down for more than the time it took him to finally shut up. She’d stood up for herself at the Christmas party, and he’d apologized. She’d been able to rather mean-spiritedly gloat to herself that Sherlock’s deduction about her evil ex-boyfriend had been wrong (the way he’d fucked her into the mattress that night after convincing her that he’d only been testing Sherlock proved that much). And, of course, he’d missed the more important fact that Jim had also been bat-shit crazy…although she wasn’t exactly gloating about that part. All things being equal, once she was done with her private gloating, she’d had to acknowledge that she’d much rather Sherlock had been right about Jim, that him being gay (rather than the much more accurate bisexual, why did people never think ‘bisexual’?) was the only secret he’d been keeping.

As for outing her broken engagement in front of John and Mary Watson and two strangers, she knew he would eventually find some way to apologize to her for it. Oh, it might involve him blaming it on his altered state of mind, and she wouldn’t allow him to hide behind that excuse, but he’d mention it.

If, of course, he made it back from his exile to eastern Europe alive. Not that he’d told her about it, which was the one time he’d NOT said something to her that made her feel like shit. No, she’d had to hear it from Mycroft. Then again, considering that Sherlock was being held in solitary confinement until his exit from England, and also considering the fact that the only reason John and Mary Watson knew about it was because John had been there to witness Sherlock’s shooting of Magnussen, she supposed she couldn’t exactly be mad at him for not telling her.

But she was. For not telling her, for getting himself into such a mess in the first place, no matter how noble his intentions…and oh, hadn’t she shocked John when he’d tried to tell her without telling her why Sherlock had done it!

_“He was saving lives Molly, and he felt the only way to protect…people…was by killing him,” John said, fidgeting nervously from foot to foot while clinging tightly to Mary’s hand._

_“By ‘people’ you mean you and Mary,” she replied bluntly, not missing the swift look of consternation that flashed across Mary’s face. She turned her attention to the other woman, making sure to hold her gaze as she said, “No, he didn’t tell me, I figured it out on my own. Not to worry, I know how to keep a secret - and I know if he’s forgiven you - God, if he’s willing to kill someone to protect you - then the least I can do is not hold it against you.”_

_“Thank you,” Mary said quietly, while John just sort of worked his mouth open and shut again as if he wasn’t sure what to say or how to react._

_When he finally did manage to find his words again, all he said was a resigned, “Should’ve known you’d figure it out. And keep quiet about it. There’s a good reason Sherlock trusts you.”_

That last bit had almost made her bark out a sardonic laugh, but she managed to keep it in check. Yeah, Sherlock trusted her when it came to his life, but not to his health, apparently. If that even made sense. She’d certainly not known he’d been using again, until that day he’d been dragged to her lab for testing.

And now he was off to get himself killed in the name of Queen and Country and she was stuck here, staring at the telly and the digitized image of her evil ex repeating ‘Did you miss me?’ over and over again. It had been going on for a good twenty minutes now, and she was still rooted in place, frozen in a combination of fear and indecision with a healthy dose of desperate disbelief. “He’s dead,” she murmured as she finally managed to unstick her body enough to speak, to lift her hands to either side of her head, to back up a single step. “I did the autopsy. He’s dead.”

“Of course he’s dead, it’s just someone using his face to spread fear and panic amongst the masses. Please don’t tell me I need to convince you of that, Molly.”

She turned at the sound of his voice, just as unexpected, almost as shocking as that of Moriarty. But it was him: Sherlock, standing a few feet behind her, hands in the pockets of his Belstaff. Eyes bloodshot, pupils mere pinpricks, the slightest tremor in his form… “Oh you bloody idiot!” she near-shouted at the realization of what he must have done to bring himself to such a state. Tears prickled in the corners of her eyes but she shook them off; she’d never cried in front of him and she bloody well wasn’t starting now. Fury combined with relief washed over her and suddenly she’d covered the distance between them enough to pound on his chest with her fists. “You selfish bastard! How could you?” Her eyes darted to his pockets. “Tell me you gave him a list!”

“I did.” He caught her wrists and wrestled her into stillness, unflinchingly maintaining eye contact when she stared up at him accusingly. “Molly, you know me, I decided to go out on my own terms…”

“Bollocks!” she shouted, not caring that the room now held other people - John, Mary, Mycroft, even Mike Stamford and DI Lestrade were there. “You know you could have found a way out of it, survived whatever the mission…you could have just  _left_ , disappeared, let eastern Europe sort itself out! Don’t tell me Mycroft’s surveillance is that hard for you to slip away from, out of London, because I’ll call you a liar to your face, Sherlock Holmes!”

Damn. The tears were falling now, fast and furious in spite of her best intentions. The expression on his face was hard to read, such a mixture of emotions, but she was certain about one thing: none of them was apologetic or repentant. “Let me go,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Not until you hear me out,” he said, if anything tightening his hold.

“Sherlock, maybe you should…” John started to say, only to be interrupted by both Molly and Sherlock glaring at him and simultaneously barking out “Stay out of this!”

To which he raised his hands in surrender and backed up one ostentatious step.

Once again it was as if Molly and Sherlock were the only ones in the room. “So talk,” she said, jutting her chin out aggressively. Letting him know that, in spite of her tears, she wasn’t about to just melt in his arms and accept anything he had to say without a healthy dose of skepticism.

What he said, however, wasn’t what she - or anyone else in the room, for that matter - expected to hear.

“I love you.”

“Uh…” Molly looked helplessly at the others - at John and Greg’s shocked expressions, at Mary’s raised eyebrow and slight grin, but mostly at Mycroft’s impassive mien. He gave her the tiniest of nods; his brother wasn’t lying, wasn’t trying to manipulate her, wasn’t saying it because he was high. “What?”

She returned her gaze to Sherlock’s, seeing him looking steadily back at her. “I love you,” he said, repeating the words quite clearly. “And because I do, I’ve come to the conclusion that this…” He gestured toward his face, his pale skin, his bloodshot eyes, “…will never happen again. Once this case is solved I will find - or rather, Mycroft or Mary will find - a rehab facility that’ll work for me. I’m not asking you to do anything so foolish as to wait for me, and I’m not promising that one stint will do the trick, that it won’t take a couple of tries. But I do promise that, however long it takes, it  _will_ happen.”

“What brought all this on?” Molly asked in a near whisper, bewildered and shaken, terrified at the idea of him hanging his sobriety on her approval. At least her tears had stopped, shocked right out of her no doubt.

“You were still angry with me,” he said simply as he finally released his grasp on her wrists, only to slide his hands around so that their fingers were intertwined. “In my mind palace, in the alternate reality I created to try to work out how Moriarty might have faked his death. You were so angry with me, and you had every right to be. You still do,” he added, although surely he could tell by now that any lingering anger had dissipated, replaced by confusion and a tiny ray of hope. “I’ve discovered that I don’t like it when you’re angry with me, and although it took me most of the ride here to puzzle it through, now I know  _why_ I don’t like it. Because I love you.” He repeated those three little words as matter-of-factly as if he were describing the weather. Or a corpse whose cause of death was obvious.

With a squeeze of his hands he released her, stepping back. “Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get you out of here, shall we?”

“Out of here?” Molly echoed, forehead wrinkling in confusion. “Why?”

Sherlock gestured toward the now-silenced television set. “In case whoever made this recording also made the connection between my survival and our friendship.” He offered up a wry smile. “There’s an east wind coming, haven’t you heard? And I’d much rather keep you out of the path of destruction if I can.”

“All right,” Molly agreed. “And after the dust settles…”

“Rehab,” he finished for her, his voice firm. “So. Let’s go see who’s trying to take dear Jim’s place, shall we?”

And he ushered her out of the room with an arm around her shoulder and a very familiar gleam in his eyes.

 


End file.
